


Return

by flight815kitsune



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:20:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight815kitsune/pseuds/flight815kitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs something to focus on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return

**Author's Note:**

> a brief post-Reichenbach thing I pumped out. Figured someone might like it?

It was a burning, itching,crawling sensation beneath his skin. An all consuming something devouring him from the inside out. It was too slow here, too plain, too boring. He needed something, anything, and the only cases allowed to him were few and far between or so cold he hadn’t the evidence to work with. There was the terrible sense that he was missing something.He lied on the chair, limbs dangled over the edges. His eyes were shut in a mockery of sleep as he grasped at straws to focus on something. Anything.

The footsteps coming in from the other room were loud. The shoes could belong to two different men, the soles were so uneven. The gait still had the slightest hesitation to every step, as though it’s owner still feared the agony but stepped despite it. The clothes were soft. They fit looser in some places than they had when they were purchased. One could hear the movement of cloth on cloth with each swing of the owner’s arm. A scent with the barest hint of lime clings to them, overlying something chemical. A warm hand touches his shoulder on the way past. A grip. Perhaps an attempt to discretely check his weight. A thumb rubbing flesh over bone. It was a calming gesture for both parties. A token to signify the presence of each of them. Something to verify that this was real, that they were both undeniably there.

John lowers himself into his chair. He pulls the paper from beneath his arm and starts to read. His hand is steady. That was good, it hadn’t been before. When he had watched from the shadows because he had been unable to look away, it had returned. Perhaps it had been due to fatigue on injured muscles, or stress, or lack thereof. The point remained that it had trembled the cup of coffee John had brought to his lips between patients, had added an unevenness to the doctor’s handwriting only one who had seen daily how steady it could be would notice. It was not as apparent as the limp, which everyone had noticed, though it may be more telling.

John still hadn’t gotten new shoes. Although his leg seemed better the shoes betrayed how their owner had used them. They were as worn as his other clothing. He hadn’t had the money to replace them. A coworker may have helped him, or Harry, but he would not have burdened them. He used the cheapest detergent he could buy. The scent, while not unpleasant, was simpler and weaker than in other brands. The color of some of the garments had faded more than would be expected from standard use, some of the fibers were damaged from poor care. There was a grey to John, now, that hadn’t been there before. It fogged his clothes, streaked his hair, tinged his skin.

He had watched him for days after he had taken down Moriarty’s network. He had gazed from a doorway, just out of sight. He never stayed for the entirety of what would pass as John’s lunchbreak. He came late and left early, each time debating if coming forward would be the right decision. On the sixth day, John wasn’t there. Panic had come first and had dragged doubt along. Fleeting thoughts that perhaps he had failed, after everything. That one lone sniper had slipped through somehow and he had accomplished nothing with his long-reaching plans. Logic came second, with the myriad of reasons why a doctor may be late. He was fidgeting and focusing on which of the dozens of reasons was most likely. There had been two children in the hall, looking generally miserable whenever they breathed. There was likely a breakout of strep throat in a local school.

There was a scuff of rubber on tile, far too close and far too familiar.

He had tried to run. He hadn’t slept or eaten more than a few bites in days. John never seemed to, either. He had taken the same apple out with him three days in a row. There had been a distinctive flush to the fruit, a gala apple, and a slight dent likely caused from it falling off of the counter. He had been too focused on his goal to master the halls in this section. He was tired, a weariness had set into his bones after he had come down from his last high. He had been desperate for something to break the monotony and now he regretted the way it slowed his reflexes. His coat was caught, and he was pulled down with it. A strong, certain movement rolled him onto his back and straddled his hips. Hands had grabbed his wrists to keep him from even making a token effort at concealing his face. He had found himself under John Watson. A broken expression had crossed John’s features. Sorrow, disbelief, and anger had flashed there before he had regained his stiff upper lip. He laughed and it was a mad thing, a manic thing. He released Sherlock’s wrists to rub his eyes. His cheeks were dry but flushed. He may have been dehydrated.

“John…” no words seemed appropriate to continue the sentence.Something snapped in John, solidified, and the fist flew. It had hurt much more than that act long ago. Dazed, with the slightest taste of copper resting on his tongue, he had blinked away the stars and fire to catch John shaking out his hand.

“All right?” Even though his bones ached, his face burned, something in the situation made his lips twist into some semblance of a smile.

The answering chuckle was less manic. “Shut up, Sherlock.”

They had returned to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had fainted, but welcomed him back with open arms. As his name was fully cleared, cases trickled in. Not enough. He had built up a tolerance and now perhaps nothing would ever be enough.

“John.” He glances over as the doctor folds the paper with a sigh and nods. Sherlock extends an arm. “Come here.” The track marks are faded now, but John still eyes them with an assessing gaze.

John comes. He always would. Offers his hand with neither question nor comment.

The pleasant sing of neurotransmitters going haywire. Sherlock plants a kiss to John’s palm. The other man’s pulse races under his fingertips. His breath catches, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes are dark.

He couldn’t stand to risk losing this again. “I need you.”

There should be a denial, there should be the gentle statement of facts as he is let down. Instead there’s an “Obviously” as those lips meet his.

Perhaps he could still learn more from John Watson.


End file.
